Eyes of Blue
by Shatterdoll
Summary: England knows it is wrong, but in these stolen moments it is hard to care... EnglandxColony!America, Shota warning, M for Lime.


So... I'm kind of embarrassed about writing this -laughs- I'm actually not crazy about shota. Half the time it just sort of makes me really sad. But, curse them forever, England and lil' colony America really pull at my heart and are way too appealing for their own good. This is once again inspired by fan art. I came across quite a few lovely samples of dark!England/England being all possessive over colony!America and I simply could not resist. Powers that be forgive me -laughs-

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Hetalia franchise

* * *

He knows it is wrong.

Fingers ghosting across skin that feels like silk. Kisses that leave invisible burns of silent possession. Gently murmured phrases only half-listened to, the tone meaning more than the words. The occasional hush to quiet a renegade whimper.

It is wrong, but in these stolen moments it is hard to care.

England nuzzles America's small shoulder in the dark. "My America, my sweet little America. How I love you."

He pulls back and looks into the sweet face of his young colony. "And you love me don't you?"

Wide blue eyes that swim with tears regard him fearfully. A small hiccup of a sob escapes him. "Y-yes England. I l-love you."

England smiles at him smugly. Because of course he knows that America loves him. It merely pleases him to hear it said. Paradise is surely America whispering those words again and again for all eternity.

England licks the tears from America's cheeks, still soft and plump with baby fat. "Why are you crying?"

America whispers something unintelligible and England runs a hand through golden locks, twirling the stubborn cowlick that can never quite be tamed. "Please don't cry my dear. It breaks my heart to see your tears."

With great care he kisses America's eyelids. Such precious eyes. Eyes that would be trained to see as he saw, copies of his own green orbs. They will regard everything with an inherit superiority and know that the rest of the world is there to serve the Great British Empire. Rule Britannia. Let those words be sealed into these sky blue windows until they blind him. Let the greatness of England fill this child, a precious vessel. His heir.

England is overcome with emotion and he presses a needful kiss on America. "I love you."

It is all he manages to get out before he presses another kiss, tongue flicking against small, perfect lips. He moans and sighs and only pulls away when he is utterly breathless. As he retreats a small strand of saliva hangs suspended between them then snaps.

America is breathing so quickly. England presses his ear to the small rib cage and listens as the heart flutters like a bird. "You are so precious. Never forget what you mean to me. The weight of my adoration for you could crush nations."

America shivers lightly beneath him. England strokes the outline of a rib. "Are you cold?"

Almost shaking his head no, America changes his mind at the last moment and nods. "Y-yes, I'm cold."

England sits up. It is no wonder his poor America is cold. After all, he is completely naked and it is rather late. England pulls off his shirt slowly, savoring the sensation of the fabric sliding across his skin. "Body heat is the best source of warmth. Were you aware America?"

America shakes his head, fresh tears welling up in his eyes.

England strokes his cheek. "Let me warm you poppet."

He presses the delicate body to his chest. Idly he begins stroking the side of the boy beneath him, fingers traveling from ribs to hip and back again. He kisses the top of America's ear, tracing the outer edge with his tongue. "Being with you makes me so happy."

America bites his lower lip and wills this moment to go away. Why does England have to do this? While some part of him thinks he could probably stop this—or at the very least should try to—he is paralyzed with uncertainty. England would never do anything to hurt him right?

England presses his mouth to America's neck. "Is this better America? Do you feel warmer now?" His hand begins to roam across America's stomach and back.

Confused and ashamed, America bears it, too afraid to tell England that he hates this. That he hates England when he does this. He much prefers during the day when England is kind and normal and so very warm. Legitimate warmth, not this twisted kind. Even most nights England is himself, allowing a nightmare plagued America to crawl into his bed where he embraces him gently and envelops him in a cocoon of comfort. Who this cold monster is that occasionally replaces England in the still of the night, America does not know. But he is terrified of him and feels powerless in his wake.

England begins sprinkling soft kisses on America's neck, shoulder, collarbone, chest. He nuzzles America's small stomach, licking his adorable belly button. So precious. Every centimeter of America is perfect. And every centimeter belongs to him, now and always.

It is wrong.

The dark desire he feels for America. He is aware. This lust is sick and twisted, something to be ashamed of. But it is not something he can help. Seeing his lovely America, that bright smile, those endlessly blue eyes, all that wanting begins to build up until he loses control and must do things like this. It eases the aching need for America. Even if it is dirty, even if he regrets it, there is no denying this ugly love.

England sits back, drinking in the sight of his America. His colony darling. Once this body has finished growing he will be able to show the extent of his love for the boy, but until then it is out of the question. The sense of wrongness is strong enough to keep him from doing that at least.

Even still, it is such a delight to watch America grow, little by little. Guiding him, molding him, sculpting him into a national treasure. England might not be known for art the way France or Italy are but the new world shall be his masterpiece.

"America..." England's voice is husky. America doesn't like it.

"E-England, can we please go to sleep now?"

The tentative hope in that small voice makes England chuckle. "You are so precious, my angel. We'll rest soon. I promise. Just... a little bit longer."

One hand tracing America's body again, England slides the other into his pants. He bites his lip as he grabs his hardened cock. With great relish he slowly begins to pump his hand up and down. As his pace begins to quicken so does his breathing. The hand that traces along America's skin is used to prop himself up, positioned over America's head.

The look on England's face, America wants nothing more than to block it from his sight, from his memory. It fills him with emotions he is far too young to understand let alone be feeling as well as revulsion and curiosity. America closes his eyes tightly. He does not understand what England is doing, why he is doing it, what it has to do with him. All he knows is that he is somehow linked to, no, the center of this dark ritual England sometimes performs.

England leans down and breathlessly kisses America. How more can he show the young nation his total adoration? How can he communicate the dreams he has dreamed for this small colony? Impossible, surely. Such things are never possible. Too many borders in between.

England is getting close. Panting against America's lips, he whispers, "Look at me America. I want you to look at me."

Tears rolling down his cheeks, America shakes his head. He doesn't want to. Why does he have to look at him?

A shiver goes through England's body and he knows he can't hold back much longer. "America, do as I say!"

Letting out a small whimper at England's harsh tone, America slowly opens his teary eyes, captured at once by vibrant green.

England gazes into America's eyes. Cleansed and pure and perfect. Yes, such lovely eyes.

_Look into me, dear one, and become as I am. _

America looks unblinkingly back into England's eyes and sees things he will never be. The thought makes little sense to him, too hard to quite grasp for his young mind, but he holds onto it like a dying man's last breath.

With one final jerk of his hand England comes, back arching, head thrown back in ecstasy. Trembling, he breathes harshly for a few moments, suspended over America. Finally his muscles relax as the pleasure dissipates, leaving nothing but cold shame.

Of course, it has always been wrong.

England removes his hand and wipes it self-consciously against his pants. He tightly holds America, who has gone very still, kissing his forehead. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

His England is back, the one he truly loves, not the scary pretend England. America throws his arms around his guardian's neck gratefully. Now England weeps and America plays the role of comforter.

"It's okay now England. You're back."

England presses his hand to America's heart, face buried in his hair. But what if he didn't come back one day? The thought holds unspeakable terrors for both of them. Best to leave such thoughts behind to lurk in the corners of darkened rooms with the rest of the nightmares.

Their tears finally dried, England pulls the blanket over both of them, the two snuggling against one another. "Sweet dreams America."

America nuzzles against England's warm body. "Goodnight England. Please stay just like this, promise?"

England feels the bitter taste of shame in his mouth. "...Promise."

Just as he always promises. And America believes him yet again. Ah, how much longer would it be before that earnest trust turned to bitter cynicism? It is hard to tell with these things.

Cradling America in his arms, still sticky with his own lust, England waits for the sound of even breathing.

England gently kisses America's hair. "I love you so much I can't control myself. Please forgive me. Someday, perhaps, you will understand. Maybe even reciprocate it."

But this of course is only a wish, not even a dream. To hope for something like that... To wish for America's love to be as dirty as his own, it is perhaps the most unforgivable wrong against the young colony of all.

Even so it is an earnest wish, and fading into sleep, England makes it again.

_Let America grow to love me, and let him become a shining piece of my empire. And let those eyes of perfect blue always, always be turned on me. _

_

* * *

_Someday I really must do something fluffy between these two...


End file.
